


we need to fetch back the time, they have stolen from us

by ImNotStubborn



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Fix It Fic, Weekly Berena Fix, fuck canon and viva berena - a mood for 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNotStubborn/pseuds/ImNotStubborn
Summary: Weekly Berena Fix, prompt #4: Barn.





	we need to fetch back the time, they have stolen from us

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't watched any Holby episode since they broke my heart, so if this doesn't fit at all with current canon... well, that's kind of the point.
> 
> (Title is from Stolen Dance by Milky Chance because if you're bitter like me the lyrics sound like Berena fans throwing shade at the Holby writers)

****You glance around the surrounding nothingness as you turn the engine off, even more unsure about the location now than you've been for the past few kilometres. But when you get the scrambled piece of paper out of your pocket to compare it to the address you put into your phone earlier, and remember Cameron Dunn's “prepare to be surprised” as he gave it to you, you have to conclude that this really is _it_.

You stare at the small farm just outside for a few more minutes, still trying to grasp the concept of it all. Of Bernie being back in the UK, of her son coming up to you two days ago on AAU and practically begging you to pay his mother a visit when the two of you haven't spoken to each other in the six months since Jason and Greta's wedding –polite holiday wishes aside. And now, of Bernie owning an honest to God farm, an hour out of Holby, and apparently living there full time.

You take a deep breath, annoyed at yourself for not having tried to grill Cam a little more as to his reasons to send you here. Except as you recall the pleading look on his face and the way he shoved the address in your hands with an unsettling urgency, you also remember that's exactly why you _didn't_ press the issue, thinking you would rather figure it out yourself and that he would have spit it out if it had been something serious.

You leave the car at last, wrapping your mid-season coat tighter around yourself. It's not so much to protect yourself from the May weather, which is more than nice even this late in the afternoon, as it is a futile attempt to try and fight the cold fear and worry you can feel chilling your insides for whatever might be waiting for you in there.

You get to the front door with measured steps, the soothing sound of your feet on the gravel helping to calm your nerves –it's been a while since you've left the city, after all– and still take another couple of seconds to compose yourself before you knock on the wooden front door.

Nothing happens.

You knock again, louder. Wait a full minute, don't hear any sound coming from inside. Try the knob this time and find the door is locked.

You tell yourself Bernie is probably off to the market or something equally as disturbing as her having bought such a place, and that there's no need for you to torture yourself over frightening assumptions for another second.

You still walk along the, you have to admit, quite charming old stones façade, until you reach a fence and spy a barn about fifty metres behind it.

You bless your choice of practical shoes and pants when you take in the uneven ground and countless weeds leading to it, and carefully make your way over, admiring the peaceful and quiet landscape around as you go.

When you round the corner to the massive barn's entrance and take a peak inside, the breath of relief you want to let out as you see Bernie there is stopped short by your heart missing a few beats.

She's got her back against some haystack, leaning on it with her eyes closed, face bathed in the late afternoon sun coming in through the large, door-free opening, her hands playing with an unlit cigarette.

Her skin looks more freckled than you remember, her hair seems impossibly messier and lighter than before in contrast to the hay surrounding it –although there's still no sight of white strands from where you're standing. She might have lost some weight though, because you recall this dark blue plaid sweater hugging her body closer than it is now.

She's still exquisite to look at, and it hits you with the force of a truck just how much you've missed the simple sight of her.

“I'd say you're supposed to light it,” you say as you come more fully inside, and at least you don't sound too hoarse, “but I'm not sure it'd be such a great idea in here.”

Startled, Bernie opens her eyes and drops the cigarette to the ground at the irruption.

“Serena?” she asks dreamily as her gaze settles on you, as if she can't really believe you're here.

You go for a small smile that you can feel growing larger than you'd planned, and see it mirrored on the blonde's face as she walks towards you. She rushes at first, arms slightly open, and you feel strangely bereft when she awkwardly stops herself before actually hugging you.

“Hi there,” you breathe out in a more proper greeting, and you almost close your eyes because now she's close enough for you to smell her unique scent.

“Hi,” she replies, voice still barley above a whisper, eyes still glued on you like they're afraid to see you disappear if they even blink. “How did you know-”

“Cameron,” you simply say, and Bernie seems curious but not too surprised. “He told me you got a new place and I ought to check it out.”

Bernie gives you a _look_ at that, and although it's clear she knows you're lying about your motives for visiting, you can guess she probably won't push you on it either.

She sighs as she combs her hair with her fingers, seemingly self-conscious of her appearance all of a sudden –and the wave of nostalgia this gestures brings is tainted by how it draws attention to more prominent cheekbones than you remembered.

“He worries too much,” she says with a shake of her head, but the way she's suddenly avoiding your eyes, when she didn't seem to be able to stop staring before any mention of her son, feels off. “But I do own the place,” she changes the subject too cheerfully, and it's somehow comforting to know she still has tank-like subtlety when she's uncomfortable.

“So he said. I never would have pictured you in such a quiet environment,” you joke, instead of asking about the dark circles under her eyes.

To your puzzlement, Bernie's shoulders tense and her lips pinch like you've hit a nerve.

“Well, you know me. Don't like to be too predictable,” she mutters with a fake smile, before crossing her arms and kicking at pieces of straw on the ground.

“I do recall you saying something about getting such a place, one day,” you try again, and at least Bernie looks back at you now. “I didn't think you actually meant it, but you're right. This farm does seem pleasant to live in.”

“I… I didn't think you'd remember that,” she replies, and you're as stunned by the intensity of the awe in her voice, as you're pained by the disbelief in there too. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”

“It does.”

There's a silence that lingers then, and your hands are itching to touch her, to feel like you can reach her again in every possible way and there isn't this odd, ill-fitting –mostly metaphorical now that you're finally on the same continent again– distance between you.

But Bernie speaks again before you can decide whether to act on the impulse.

“I'm not sure what I want to do with the place yet, I might simply rest away from the city from time to time. I've decided to locum until I figure it out, since I'll need the money to keep this place together whatever the outcome.”

“And the adrenalin to not die of boredom?” you chime in, careful this time about sounding like you're criticising her new life choices.

Bernie only chuckles and looks up, finally uncrossing her arms.

“Fine,” she admits, “there's that too.”

“Can I ask what happened with Nairobi, then?”

It feels odd even naming that city, tastes bitter on your tongue like it always does to remember the unofficial vows you broke.

Bernie shrugs, and you would roll your eyes at how robotic and forced it looks, if your eyes weren't suddenly drawn to collarbones that have gotten much more visible in the past few months.

“The trauma centre started running itself with the rest of the team there. I mean, you know as well as I do that no surgeon is irreplaceable in such places, that's kind of the whole point.”

“Right,” and it stings to be reminded that indeed, you were both supposed to run a trauma unit at some point, but that certainly didn't last long.

“And after a while I just missed… home,” she says, the quick glance she throws at you before suddenly averting her eyes lighting a fire in your chest. “And Cameron and Charlotte, especially. We've been talking a lot more recently, the three of us. It's tricky, but I think we're getting somewhere... or maybe not so much, if one of the side effects is Cam summoning you out there.”

You only hum at her attempt at humour, unable to let yourself be drawn away from the one question you've wanted to ask since you've first received the bizarre news that she's back.

“So you're… you're staying. For good?”

You hate how hopeful you sound there, because weighing Bernie down when she might want to fly away to new adventures soon is the one thing you'd promised yourself not to do, the one reason you let her go all these months ago.

“I am,” she answers anyway, and the conviction in there makes your knees a little weak.

“Well, I'm glad I found out somehow,” you can't help but comment, knowing the second it's out that you have no business sounding reproachful about this.

“I'm sorry,” comes the immediate and predictable reply, “I meant to tell you-”

“No, it's quite alright, I get it,” you stop her because you're really not in a position to judge. “It's not like distance was the only issue between us, and I did divorce a cheater once upon a time, so I really don't have a leg to stand on here,” you playfully add.

But instead of the slightly awkward agreement you thought you were going to get, Bernie frowns, and you almost miss it as you're the one avoiding piercing brown eyes now.

“You… what? You think I didn't contact you because of Dr Faulkner?”

You do look at her fully at that though, confused.

“Why else?” you still ask with a falsely confident smile, a tiny part of you afraid to hear more, to see resentment on her face a she enunciates the many valid reasons she probably had for not wanting to let you know she'd be around.

You're surprised when all Bernie does is blink slowly for a while.

“Because… because you said you wouldn't want me like this?” she asks more than she explains, her voice cracking on the last words. “Because you said I wouldn't be the person you fell in love with if I settled down, that a, how did you put it? A suburban Bernie Wolfe wasn't something you could ever-”

And this time you don't think before gently but decisively grabbing her wrist with your hand, that simple touch enough to shut her up as she takes a sharp breath in, her eyes closing and missing the way yours fixate on her mouth for the longest time.

“Bernie,” you start, grateful that you're close enough to whisper. “I, God, I only said that because that's what I thought you wanted me to say.”

You shake your head as you start to realise just how completely wrong you apparently were that last day at Albie's, just how big of a misunderstanding this entire mess might have been built on.

“What?”

It's a murmured interrogation, like Bernie too can't quite believe what she's just heard, like she's having trouble articulating through the tightness of her own throat, and you have no choice but to spell it out now.

You can't do it like this though, you have to take a bit of distance to not completely lose it, to not crumble before you can say your piece. So you let go of her hand to instead fiddle with your necklace, needing something to focus on, and clear your throat before speaking.

“I had promised to run a trauma unit with you, and then… then Elinor happened and I disappeared,” you start, and stop Bernie from interrupting with a pleading look. “I promised to join you in Nairobi, then came back on that too and decided to stay in Holby. I made you promise to wait for me, and then I went and… Lord. And even after finding that out, you were about to uproot your new life, to leave your dream job and come back here, for _me_? After I let you down so many times? No,” you state louder than you'd meant to, “I wasn't going to make you stay because you felt you had in order to fix my mistake. Not when staying wasn't what you really wanted, not when I wasn't… am not good enough for you.”

You don't realise you're crying until Bernie, mouth agape in shock Bernie, slowly brings her hand to your face and wipes a few tears away. Her own eyes are shinier than they were before, you notice, and she swallows with obvious difficulty as she closes her eyes for an instant, then looks back at you.

“Serena,” she simply whispers.

And there is so much to read in the way she says your name still, so much compassion, so much devotion you haven't felt you deserve in a long time, so many other things you don't dare to put a name on quite yet, that you can feel more tears gathering and a sob escape your mouth.

Before you can even think to turn around and leave, you feel two strong arms snake around your waist, two hesitating, but warm and safe hands landing on your back. They hold you close without crushing you, move in sync with the erratic breathing movements of your thorax as you let go, crying into Bernie's shoulder like you have many times before.

And when you finally feels somewhat normal again and start paying attention to Bernie's own breathin, you realise that something is off.

“Bernie, what's wrong?” you ask, pulling away in alarm, because Bernie Wolfe crying isn't something you've witnessed that often before.

“What's wrong? Seriously?” comes the disbelieving answer.

You stare as Bernie rids her face of the few tears straining it with the back of a hand, the other still secured against your hip, and think you must have truly screwed up if you've managed to make her display such obvious pain when it's against all of her instincts.

“Right,” you start, soldiering on for the inevitable goodbyes. “Look, I shouldn't have come here only to feel sorry for myself, I should just-”

“Will you, just, give me a minute, for God's sake?” Bernie cuts in, irritated.

But it seems it's more directed at herself and her own unusual show of emotions, because at the same time her fingers are tightening against your thin coat, as if to make sure you're not leaving, as she pinches at her nose bridge with her free hand and sniffles a few times before she gets her self control back.

“This crying thing is really getting out of hands these days,” she mumbles, low enough that you're not sure you hear correctly, before clearing her throat. “I thought you were trying to let me down easy,” she then lets out in one breath, dropping her hand from her face and grabbing yours again.

She sighs when you only look at her, dumbfounded.

“When I said I could see you living a domestic life with someone but that someone wasn't me,” she clarifies. “I said it because I thought you didn't want me here. I thought you knew me, Serena, knew that although it's taken me decades to figure it out, I was and am more than just an action-addicted ex-army trauma surgeon. So when you said you _couldn't_ picture me living a domestic life, I thought you either didn't know me at all, or that you were simply trying to politely say that you didn't _want_ that with me.”

“Oh. No, that's not at all-”

“So I gather,” she interrupts with a sad smile before you can add anything.

You smile back, although the urge to cry again makes it hard when you're thinking of the foolishness you both displayed half a year ago, and the hurt your respective hearts could have been spared if only you'd told each other the truth.

“More importantly, though, I don't ever want you to blame yourself for how you dealt with what happened to Elinor,” Bernie adds, and her hand lets go of your coat to slip underneath and spread its warms more efficiently through the light fabric of your blouse.

“I don't,” you say right away, and you can see the doubt in her eyes. “Really, I don't, not anymore. But I am sorry for the impact it's had on your life.”

“I didn't mind, Serena. I'm not going to say it was easy, but I only wanted you and to be there for you, and I was fine withgiving you space when you requested it and left. Just like I was okay with you stayingin Holby when it was obvious Jason and Eric needed your help. Now, I can't seriously say I wanted you to fall into bed with an F1- Too soon?”

You erase the involuntary grimace from your face and give a half smile instead.

“I think you sort of get to decide that.”

“Well, I decide it was a poor choice on your part, and I wish it hadn't happened because I'm pretty sure we would both have fought a little harder to imagine a future together then. But,” she says much more softly, looking at you with all the care and, you dare to think it now, all the love in the world, “I also know you're not the only one who did something stupid in this relationship, like running away to a foreign country when things got too serious and, not so long after, doing a repeat of the radio silence number you liked so much the first time around without expecting any backlash for it.”

You don't protest how you think your mistake was a lot bigger than hers, knowing you're both stuck on identical opinions and won't yet budge from them, and instead let yourself feel the wave of relief and understanding that comes from finally laying it all on the table.

You look down at your still joined hands, enjoying the familiarity of the sight, of this palm against yours feeling like you're both coming home from an impossibly long and unnecessary journey.

“Well then, how about we stop saying what we think the other wants to hear and be honest instead?”

You still look down as you ask, afraid you might get told it's either too early, or way too late to suggest this.

“I think that's a great place to start over,” Bernie answers immediately. “Serena?” she adds, coaxing your chin up with that irresistibly sweet tone alone. “You _are_ good enough. Never doubt that.”

Your heart feels like it's about to implode in your chest, your ears are ringing, and it's like you can feel her words making their way to your brain, healing invisible, deep self-inflicted bruises and making the world lighter, brighter than it's been in a long time.

“Right back at you,” you manage to get out, pouring all the warmth you can in your voice. “And I mean that, _suburban_ Bernie Wolfe,” you say as you bring your free hand up to her cheek, not resisting the urge to touch the old and new golden spots on her fair skin any longer.

She grins at your touch and it spreads up to her clear and liquid browns, soft and focused on yours just as intensely as that day you sat side by side on the theatre floor. She's more beautiful in that instant than she's ever been, the now setting sun surrounding her in a slightly orange halo that makes the moment look almost surreal.

And so you do what you have to in order to make sure you're not dreaming.

You close your eyes, and kiss the greatest love affair of your life.

 


End file.
